


a button-up short sleeved shirt

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Size Difference, Size Kink, dumb teenagers, short jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 08:45:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: "If you've ever wondered what my life is like go sit front row at the movies #NeckCramps"Dhooghe, Sean (@sean_dhooghe). 15 September 2017. Tweet.





	a button-up short sleeved shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, hi. Sorry for the hiatus. Would not have thought I would break it on 4/20 like this.
> 
>  _Somebody_ had to lock his instagram while I was writing this, but [luckily, the tagged-in page came in clutch.](https://instagram.com/p/BQgNIrDjskJ/) Just a captain and his tiny boyfriend.
> 
> In terms of warnings, there are a few moments that may look like dubious consent, but isn't, really. Underage as in Brady is 17 in this, I think, IDK, I don't know math. It's not something that I would normally warn for, but, given the times, there's also a reoccurring gag of Brady being a reckless driver, which scares his passenger a little. There are no lessons to be learned about that in this fic.
> 
> Title’s from “Big Tall Man” by Liz Phair. 
> 
> Okay, enough from me, enjoy!

It’s not a _thing_ until it is.

Brady squirms the entire drive into Detroit, repositioning his hands every couple of minutes, trying to steer with just one before it becomes obvious that having a free hand doesn’t cut down on the nervous energy. He wishes he hadn’t deferred music selection to the passenger, just so he’d have a reason to fiddle with phone that wouldn’t make Sean grimace. Not that Sean’s some bastion of car safety, either, his seat pushed back and legs propped up on Brady’s dashboard. His seatbelt seems lax, twisted around so it’s not touching his neck.

Sean must catch Brady side-eying his whole situation, because he turns more fully towards Brady and asks, “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Brady says, “if you need me to get a booster seat in here—”

 _“Hey.”_ Sean’s cheeks are streaked red, but it could be from anything, the cold outside or the hot air blasting from the car’s vents or anything else. He’s not mad, Brady’s sure, so he pushes on.

“You know Jenny Ferrara has, like, a mountain of pillows in her car so she can reach everything—”

“Jenny Ferrara isn’t even five feet tall.”

Brady makes a show of turning away from the road, looking Sean up and down. “... and?”

“Alright,” Sean says loudly, turning the volume up until he can’t hear Brady laughing and the car is shaking a little. He’s smiling, though, so Brady isn’t worried.

The drive isn’t a long one, and it isn’t the first time they’ve made it. This isn’t even the first time he’ll be watching family out on the ice. But it feels different for it to be Matt. Two years and Brady will be in the same place. Wants to be, at least.

Brady pulls out from behind someone instead of breaking, then accelerates until his car growls and he’s pressed back in his seat. Sean punches him in the arm or maybe tries to regain his balance.

“Okay, asshole, chill. I don’t want to die,” Sean laughs, the flat of his knuckles still against Brady’s arm.

“ _You_ chill, I’m a great driver, when have you ever died,” Brady says automatically, but he slows to a reasonable approximation to the speed limit. Their exit is coming up, anyway.

 

The rest of the Tkachuks beat Brady to Joe Louis, which maybe isn’t a great testament to his time management but does mean he won’t have to pay for any arena food himself. Or, at least, his parents won’t let Sean pay for his own arena food, because they _love_ Sean, who in turn likes Brady enough to share his french fries.

Brady’s in the middle of taking photographic proof that Taryn has surpassed Sean, her cheek pressed to the top of his head, when his dad asks, “Is this your whole entourage?”

“What?” Brady responds, dropping his phone to a more conspicuous angle.

“I’m just saying, if it was just going to be you two, we had plenty of room in the car,” Keith says. He sounds like he’s trying to say something, but Brady can’t imagine what.

“Uh, okay, I’ll remember I have your permission to spend more of Matt’s money next time,” Brady says. “He could’ve invited his own guys, I don’t know, they didn’t have to ride with me.”

It comes out a little harsher than Brady meant it, and his mother voices a single, stern, _“Hey.”_ Nothing more comes out it, though, and they start making their way deeper into the arena. His parents lead the way, and it seems like they’re just heading towards their seats. It’s normal enough, having his dad as his dad, but sometimes it’s fun when he pulled a few strings. Brady had thought this might be one of those nights, even though Matt probably doesn’t need that, settling into a new team. It’d have been cool for Sean, at least.

A shoulder pushes against his arm, and he when he looks down, Sean asks, “So why did you bring me?”

“What?” Brady repeats, even though he heard fine. He doesn’t get why it’s such a big deal; he’d wanted Sean here because he likes Sean, and because it feels good to be around Sean. Maybe, in the back of his mind, Brady thought it might be nice if he could introduce Sean to Gaudreau, so they could compare notes or whatever.

That’s not something Brady can just say, though, so instead he just pulls his mouth into a smirk, pulls Sean against him—and it feels good, natural, warm and solid down his side—and says, “Gotta make sure the girlfriend and the fam are getting along.”

“I’m not, though,” Sean says, and Brady goes a little tight and awkward.

“What?”

“I said,” Sean says, “I’m not your girlfriend.” He pulls out from under Brady’s arm, turns so he’s walking backwards in front of him, and drops a hand to his zipper, pulling at his dick. Brady’s mouth feels dry.

“My sister is _right there,”_ is what he finally chokes out.

 

**‘ , ‘ , ‘**

 

The thing is, Brady has no clue why Sean even turned it into a thing.

Brady’s used to it now, obviously, but when they first met, started playing together—there aren’t many hockey players who look like Sean. And it’s not _funny,_ because Sean’s a hell of player—he outscored Brady their first year, for fucks sake—but just looking at him lit Brady up a little, like he just drank something hot and it settled in his chest.

And, okay, maybe Brady thought it was a bit of a joke when he first saw Sean at tryouts, but that feeling faded. The warmth didn’t, and that’s—normal. Good chemistry. Brady felt like he could carry Sean around in his pocket all day and never want to put him down. He doesn’t even think he was the one who started it, but it’d made sense, at the time, whatever they were doing, to lean in and say, “You know I love my girlfriend,” pull Sean further into his lap, put a hand over blond curls—different than Brady’s, softer—and feel a hot, grinning cheek under his finger.

So it was thing, since then, but it wasn’t a _thing._ Until now.

 

**‘ , ‘ , ‘**

 

Miss Thompson is a fan of hockey. Brady thinks it’s maybe not appropriate to know that, but it makes life easier when Reedy can just smile their out of having extra work over the next roadtrip. In fact, they even get some Dum Dums out of the deal. Brady takes two, one orange and one cherry.

They’re late for lunch, which means getting in line for food is out of the question, but they leave at the end of the period and eat at the arena, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. Brady falls into his regular seat, waving the cherry sucker at Sean, who snatches it out of his hand. Logan yells from down the table, “So I guess it went well?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Reeds says.

Sean pauses, wrapper crunched in his fingers, and says, “Do you remember what the first thing you said to me was?”

Brady blinks. “No?”

“Thompson wants to fuck, I swear to God—” Logan is saying.

“Not you, that’s for sure,” Quinn interrupts, loudly. Brady should maybe be doing some captainly mediating, but some arguments just need to be played out and set to rest.

“You said you didn’t know Munchkinland was in the US,” Sean continues. He brings the sucker to his mouth, the white stick pressing against his lips. “I said it’s in Kansas, so it’d check out.”

Brady doesn’t know what he’s done to make Sean want to fuck with him so much recently. He wants to deny it, but it does sound like something he would’ve said, especially if they were ever paired against each other in a scrimmage. It’s kind of a stupid thing to be a dick about, Brady supposes. He jokes, “I would’ve guessed Massachusetts,” and then, “Sorry. I didn’t—sorry.”

Sean raises his eyebrows. “It’s from _The Wizard of—”_

“Yeah, I know, I’ve seen the movie,” Brady says, ears burning. “Just, you know, Dunkin? The little donut holes? Munchkins?”

Last week, Brady might have said something corny like, _You’re sweet enough to be one,_ but he doesn’t know if that would fly with this new Sean who makes a big deal out the stupid shit Brady says. He feels trapped, out of his depth, as he watches Sean’s stained-red tongue nudge the little sucker to the corner of his mouth, pushing at his cheek as he turns towards the table and says, “Isn’t she engaged, anyway? To the hot graphics teacher?”

“Hasn’t stopped ‘em before,” Logan insists. Brady beams his own lollipop at Logan’s head, just for something to do, then has to wrestle it back so Logan doesn’t claim it as a trophy.

 

**‘ , ‘ , ‘**

 

The _thing_ is, Brady _knows_ Sean isn’t a girl. Since day one, Sean has been one of the boys. A good teammate. The kind of friend who’s neck deep in the sort of shit Brady usually tries to keep away from his girlfriends. They’re _cool._

It’s just that, when Brady looks at Sean, the straight line of his back, his body working in the weight room, the permanent pinkness in his face, his fingers stretched around his phone, strong but so much smaller than Brady’s, which he knows because he’s felt them before, he can’t help the warm wripple that always goes through his chest, the way he goes a little light-headed before automatically jumping back to that first thing, _I love my girlfriend._

But also, obviously, not, in some really crucial ways. Like, none of Brady’s ex-girlfriends would let him throw them around like Sean does. If he’d even want to, what that would say about him. With Sean, Brady can pull Sean’s jersey over his head and dump him on the ice, wrestle Sean to the ground or against a wall or on a bed, pin him where Brady wants and put his hands anywhere, dig his fingers into Sean’s sensitive sides until his face his red and he’s tearing up a little, and it’s just—nice. Fun. Gets Brady’s blood going a little.

So. _Not_ a _thing._

 

**‘ , ‘ , ‘**

 

They’re on the road, and it’s late. Coach jokes about taping them into their rooms, except no one can even be sure because no one wants to check.

Brady thinks it’s kind of pointless, because it’s not like they don’t have, like, fifteen group chats popping off on any given night, but it’s easier to just turn off your notifications or pass out on top of your phone than it is dealing with the entire team piling in on top of each other, so maybe there’s something to it.

This night, though, Brady isn't feeling generous, because David is being weird and secretive, curled around his own phone, and people are falling asleep on him, and Brady is wired and twitchy and _bored._

Brady’s burning through his swipes on Tinder, aimless, when a snap comes in from Sean, hours—okay, an hour, most of it—late. He opens the message, expecting the black-barred _You’re so annoying_ but getting caught off-guard by all the skin, Sean reclining lazily against the hotel backboard, camera angled so Brady can see his face and his neck and his chest, eyes sticking on nipples reddened in the dull hotel lighting.

Sean puts in just as much time in the weight room as anyone, works hard for the strength and bulk that Brady knows he more or less gets by blood. Brady _knows_ this, but when he sees the swell of Sean’s chest, Brady’s so convinced that if he put his hands on Sean’s—tits, cups them, curls his fingers and feels those nipples against his palm, that they’d feel soft, and it’d feel good.

And then it’s gone, the screen flashing back to the white recents menu. Brady feels the loss in his gut, and for a frantic second, he almost forces a replay, fumbling and just opening chat instead.

Stupid. It’s stupid, and Brady replies **Don’t send me your nudes,** because it’s not fair of Sean to put Brady in this position, after a year of everything being perfectly fucking normal.

Another red box pops up. Brady almost doesn’t want to open it, but his hands do it anyway. He almost chokes on it, this fucking picture turned around on Sean’s thin fingers grazing over his bare stomach, leading down to where his legs are poking out of a twisted pair of blue boxers, hiked up with a slightly gaping waist, too dark to _know,_ captioned _Not a nude—_  

He screenshots it in a moment of reckless abandon, fucked up over the thought of losing it, feeling himself tighten and grind, subconsciously, into the mattress beneath him, before he freezes. Feels guilty about it. Opens chat on purpose this time, thinks desperately for something normal to say, only to settle on **Oh so just cash,** which is just _stupid,_ because he forgot cash was already a word and not just a bad abbreviation of “casual,” and because they’re teammates. Brady has seen Sean naked more times than he’d ever think to count. So has every guy on this floor. Of course it’s just fucking casual.

Except, the longer Brady lies there, the more that starts to backfire. The easier it becomes to see Sean sending something where his hand had been lower, teasing, pulling back. Brady can clearly picture what that extra inch of Sean’s hips would look like, how far he’d have to go before they’d be _off._ Knows what Sean’s shoulder would look like, his back, if Sean turned over—  

Brady launches himself off the bed and into the hotel bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Every part of him feels like he’s throbbing, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t even get in the shower, just fucks his fist until he comes into the toilet, other hand squeezing his phone, screenshot stark on his screen.

He’s still wheezing a little when another photo comes in, this time just of his face, judgmental but not really, his frown over-exaggerated. _Dude just go the fuck to sleep._

Brady does.

 

It’s not until he wakes up that he sees the snapchat David presumably sent to everyone, of him on the bed, so tense his toes were curling, saying _He’s mouth breathing,_ followed by an empty bed moments later, _Jerkin it._ There are some weak, commiserating chirps. Evan had sent Sean, on his bed, staring at his phone, _#lovematch._

The conversation had already drifted past last night, but Brady still makes vague plans to punish his team for their dissension later. He walks down to breakfast still throbbing, expecting something to written across his forehead, for someone, Sean, to sit him down and say, _Really, buddy, this has gone too far._

Instead, everyone is piling up on Graham, who swears this girl who’s way too hot for him is coming to their game later. It’s an easy target. Brady ignores when Sean says, “I don’t know, Slaggs’ a good lookin’ guy, I think he could put it off.”

 

**‘ , ‘ , ‘**

 

The back of their practice jerseys has a red octagon, RESPECT in all-caps, in a way that feels more and more pointed to Brady.

It’s not like Brady doesn’t respect Sean. He wonders if Sean knows that, if that is what all this is about. Brady had thought that Sean had liked their— Brady doesn’t even know. Their friendship? The more he time he spends turning everything over in his head, the less possible it feels that Sean could like the way Brady treats him. Even though he laughs after, or during, and doesn’t exactly _avoid_ Brady, kind of the opposite.

Sean is small. Brady doesn’t want to make him _feel_ small.

Or, well.

Brady doesn’t want to hurt him bad, is all.

 

**‘ , ‘ , ‘**

 

There is no point to a vibrate function that can be heard. Whatever happened to _discretion._

“Who’s even texting you? We just saw everyone we know five minutes ago,” Brady snaps, fingers tugging restlessly at the steering wheel, foot jumping on the break, letting the car slowly creep over the white line, impatient. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sean smile and type out of response before answering. Brady’s own phone stays silent.

“Niko thinks you’re a homophobe,” he says.

Ridiculous. Completely fucking ridiculous. What the fuck does _Niko_ know. He isn’t even a real Niko, there are just that many Joshes that outrank him, so—  

“What the fuck does Nikolovski know?” Brady says out loud. His heart is pounding a little in his chest, and he’s the first to make it into the intersection once the light turns green. “How does he even come to that conclusion, he doesn’t even know me. Is that the sort of shit they teach you in AP Psych?”

Sean laughs, and Brady worries it’s because Sean thinks he doesn’t know Sean took psych forever ago, and now he and Niko are in other smart kid science classes Brady avoided by taking earth science twice.

Instead, Sean responds, “You were kinda aggro, just now.”

The Mustang in front of them is only going five miles above the speed limit, what is even the _point._ Brady pulls into the turning lane, half planning to just pass before deciding to take the longer way back to Sean’s billet house. It takes about the same time driving, less traffic cops.

“He was all over you,” Brady mumbles. Sean doesn’t always look up at people, will just stare straight ahead if he has a point to prove, but he was then, head tilted up as he was tucked up close to Niko, arms wrapped around each other, Niko’s hand wide on his waist, drifting down—

Whatever. Why was Sean trying to keep them on school property longer than necessary.

“Yeah, because I hate that so much,” Sean says. And then, just as careless, he continues, “You kinda cockblocked him at that last party we were all at, too.”

Brady barely remembers that party, let alone Sean and Niko— _if_ there had been anything, it was just more Niko, looming, and he wasn’t—he didn’t _deserve—_

For all the shit Sean talks about Brady’s driving, he had never tested if his gas pedal could literally touch the floor before.

 

Sean practically flees from the car the second it rolls to a stop, but Brady takes longer. His muscles feel like rocks floating in a watery sack a prick away from bursting. The images keep coming on, of Niko, who is maybe the third biggest guy on Pi High’s football team, probably bigger than Brady, on Sean—

He goes inside. It only takes a minute of hey-how-are-you-fine with Sean’s billet parents before he can escape upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Brady thinks he remembers Sean talking about his billet parents using it as a sort of practice-adoption, or adoption-resume fodder, or maybe to help save up for adoption, but it means that the guest room they have Sean in is the only occupied room, with light streaming out from beneath the door.

When Brady invites himself in, he means to say something—he doesn’t know, conversational, or nice, or easy, but instead he says, “You are not fucking Josh Nikolovski.”

“Or, what, you’ll kill me?” Sean’s voice is high and reedy, like he’s a little wired, scared.

He ignores the dig at his driving—Sean’s the one who keeps getting into the car, even when he has his own license and a whole team to ride with—pressing, “You can’t.”

It’s maybe the wrong choice of words. Sean drops to sit at the edge of his bed, but his face gets a hard edge to it, through the round of his cheeks and chin and flat mouth. Mostly in his eyes. “Yeah? How you figure?”

The truth is—and Brady can feel it in his gut—that here’s something crude and stupid and awful about Niko knowing the feeling of Sean’s body, where he’s hard and solid and sturdy and where he’s soft enough that Brady feels like he could sink him in for hours.

Instead, what comes out of Brady’s mouth is, “It just—you’re so _small.”_

It’s the wrong thing to say. Sean’s mouth falls open, just barely, face tense, eyes sharp. His tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip before Sean says, low and clear, “Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe I like big guys who can hold me down and—” his voice catches for a second, breathing in before he commits to saying— “and make me feel it.”

It sounds like porn, maybe even bad porn, but Brady pictures, vividly, exactly that, Niko hulking over Sean, digging in, and Brady thinks, _you can’t you can’t you cannot—_

Sean fights it when Brady lurches forward tackles him into the bed, pushing back at Brady, twisting onto his front for better leverage, to get away _._ Brady doesn’t even think, just drops on top of Sean, pressing him into the mattress. Brady has sixty pounds on him. He’s a foot taller. It’s not something Brady ever forgets, but he can really feel it now, Sean compact and squirming hard beneath him.

“Stop,” Brady gasps, elbow clocking his ribs. It wouldn’t be hard to make him, but Sean had said. “You just said you _like_ it. Let me—”

“What are you talking about?” Sean snaps, but he’s a smart guy. There’s no way to misinterpret Brady shifting just enough to free up a hand and shove it between them. It’s a shitty angle, twisting his wrist until his fingertips meet the elastic of Sean’s sweatpants and pushing past them. Brady’s fingers feel graceless, groping once before pushing further between Sean’s legs, his ass, not even sure pf what he’s looking for until his fingertips catch. A groan grinds its way out of his chest as Sean jerks beneath him, not getting anywhere, maybe not trying to.

It feels different than girls do. Obviously. His fingers don’t slide as easily, leaving him petting at Sean’s hole, like he has to coax his way in. It’s still soft, though, and Brady still wants it, wants in.

Brady curls himself tighter around Sean, pushes his face against the side of Sean’s head, mouth practically touching his ear. He still smells all clean from their post-practice shower at the arena. Brady turns his face, skin against skin, and says, “Come on.”

 _“Dude.”_ Sean feels so tense, unsure, and Brady gets it. He still doesn’t understand what this thing is, how it can exist with everything else, but he knows it’s not for anyone else, for Sean, when it could be him. He presses his mouth against Sean’s neck until he can feel his own teeth against the back of his lips.

“I know,” Brady says, eventually, and, “Stay,” and, “Let me, you know you can.”

Sean throbs, and Brady can feel it, the bare tip of his middle finger sliding into Sean. The entire world vacuums down to being inside of Sean, having Sean inhale sharply and squirm against him as Brady carves a space for himself. It’s _different,_ but so, so good, like Sean is sucking him in, even as Brady has to work to take it.

He’s not the only one, though, and Sean keeps tensing, shifting beneath Brady, until Brady moves his free arm to wrap it around Sean’s shoulders, holding him close, putting his full weight down Sean’s back. He _knows_ Sean take it. Brady’s wrist is probably facing the worst of it. Still, Sean shudders again, twists until their cheeks and noises brush and then his mouth is against Brady’s for a second before he bites, sharp and mean, until the corner of Brady’s lip is a pounding sting, then freezes.

And, well, Brady can’t not kiss Sean when he’s right there, taste Sean as he feels every tremble and shift in the squeeze around his finger. His mouth feels like it could fall off, a messy clash of teeth but both of them too hungry to care, and all he can think about is how smooth Sean under him. It’s impossible that Brady is supposed to fit his whole cock into him. And yet.

He draws his finger free, feels Sean close up again in his absence, hole tight and smooth when Brady rubs at it with two fingers, crooking them—  

Sean jerks suddenly enough to dislodge Brady, crawling forward a few inches on his stomach before Brady is back on him, hands on his hips, leaning back in until Sean grunts a little and says, “Just wait, it’s too dry, you can’t like that.”

Then Sean is shoving his forearm down between his mattress and the wall, digging around until he drags up a clear plastic bottle. It looks like the tube of hair gel lying on the dresser, except the labeling is purple and it’s mostly empty.

The hot knot in Brady’s stomach tightens. “Seriously?”

“Just—please.” Sean pushes it into Brady’s hands and crosses his around his face. His ears stick out, almost purple. Brady wants to touch one, so he does, fingertips almost blistering, before Sean pinches his shoulder up.

It should be easier with Sean lying still beneath him, finally, but Brady’s hands shake a little as he pops the lid off of the lube. He’s still considering its volume, what its depletion means, when it occurs to him that he should probably get Sean out of his clothes first. Or at least the important ones.

Brady’s already been inside Sean, held him down for it, but somehow it feels like more to twist his fingers around the hem of Sean’s sweatpants and tug them over the pale swell of ass. Sean’s hips shift a little, letting the elastic slide down around his thighs, and it feels like Brady would die if his eyes left skin. His hands keep moving with him thinking—because it feels familiar, natural, automatic to have Sean like this—and Sean feels so soft here. He’s got a big ass, comparatively, naturally, but Brady hadn’t been in the habit of thinking of what it would feel like to dig his fingers in, have it give to him, watch as his own hands spread Sean open.

Sean’s hole is _pretty,_ pink and small. Brady has been in there. His jaw hurts a little, thinking about it. Sean is lying there, still, waiting for Brady to do it again. Give him more.

The lube is slippery. Brady feels stupid, frustrated as it slides down his fingers quicker than he can figure out what to do with it, until he just slides that first finger back into Sean and squirting more lube right onto him, tucking in another finger quick behind it. Sean makes a whimpering noise, almost words, and rolls away from it, then back.

“Don’t—don’t get it all over my sheets,” Sean says, after a minute. His hole looks shiny and perfect around Brady’s fingers.

“Stay still, then,” Brady responds. His free hand is still gripping whatever his fingers catch on, Sean’s ass, his hip, a spread thigh, the swoop of Sean’s back hidden beneath the sweatshirt he still has on.

Sean steadies quick, shoulders rising and falling evenly. His face is still hidden, but Brady can still picture it: flushed, but maybe impassive, uncomfortable, like he’s letting some idiot play with his ass and isn’t expecting much from it. It’d been the vibe Brady got from the first girl who’d let him touch her. And she’d been a lot more patient, like, as a person than Sean.

It takes effort for Brady to get his ribs to expand again and ease the buzzing in head. His knuckles are pressed up against Sean. It’s even better getting Sean wet, can feel himself making Sean easier to take, and it’s an actual crime to draw them back, but he does it anyway. Sean breathes through it, visibly tensing and relaxing his shoulders, legs, hands. Brady wants to make him feel _good._

He spreads more lube over Sean’s hole for something to do while he thinks. It kind of makes a mess, but Sean starts breathing a little louder. Brady isn’t planning on waiting him out, but Sean cracks first, sharp. “Brady. Do something. _”_

“What do you want?”

It’s an honest question, but Sean makes a deep, frustrated groan, before telling the mattress, “I want you _in_ me.”

Brady toys his fingers around the rim for another few seconds—wonders if he’s hallucinating, that Sean already seems looser—but he’s not really in any position to resist Sean, the scorching clench of him.

It’s not like Brady is keeping a running tally between Sean’s ass and a cunt. Things keep occuring to him, is all, like _so fucking soft_ and _I really fucking like this_ and _girls like it when I curl my fingers._

Sean really likes it, too.

Brady feels something against the tips of his fingers after a few more quiet, strained minutes, and when he pets at it, Sean yelps, jerks forward hard enough to break out of Brady’s grasp. Brady follows, of course he follows, needing to know if he can draw out that response again.

He can.

It’s like Sean can’t stay still, twisting beneath where Brady’s hand is pinned against the small of his back, turning his head every few seconds, face red, mouth open and gasping. Brady’s wrist is starting to twinge again, but there’s nothing he can do against Sean chanting, _“More.”_

It’s not enough. Sean curls in on himself, pressing his hands to his face before saying, “Brady. _Brady._ I want—”

“What? What do you need?” Brady presses when the lack of response drags too long. He feels like Sean could say _the Stanley Cup_ and Brady drive to wherever that fucker is, fight the keepers off, and bring it back for him. Brady really hopes it’s not that. He doesn’t want to leave the bubble of Sean’s bedroom.

Sean groans again, frustrated, pushing back against Brady’s hand almost absently before repeating, _“More.”_

Brady glances down at where Sean is a tight stretch around his fingers, almost blanched white at the knuckle, and has a horrible thought about his _hand_ before his dick throbs so hard it almost bends him in two.

No way is Sean asking Brady to fuck him, except there’s no way he’s not, and—  

Brady can already feel himself sweating, but he doesn’t care, fighting his way out of his own sweats before he starts tugging frantically at Sean’s, pushing the back of the sweater up until Sean takes the hint and then disposes of the pants.

It’s a lot of skin. Brady _knew,_ obviously, doesn’t understand how he’s been on the same team as Sean for so long, has seen him naked more times than he can count, and never truly appreciated how much of Sean there is. There’s a freckle towards the inside of Sean’s left thigh, and Brady bites it, because he can, except it makes Sean thrash and spread his legs further. There’s a glimpse of a flushed pink, and Brady wants a lot of things, but his dick literally hurts with how bad he needs to be inside of Sean.

He can’t handle the idea of backing up again, like Sean will disappear if he’s not directly under Brady, so instead he just slides up, chest to back, twisting his arms around Sean’s. It feels good to have Sean grab back at him, twist his fingers into Brady instead of the sheets. It feels better for his dick to finally, _finally_ make contact with Sean, and grind against the swell of his ass.

They’re pressed close enough for Brady to feel when Sean tenses beneath him. Brady hums a question against the crown of Sean’s head.

“It’s just,” and Sean swallows, “you’re really big.”

Brady laughs, startled, even as his dick drips a tally against Sean’s ass. He stretches his hand out as far as it’ll go, pokes at Sean’s lip with the finger that ends up closest. His mouth drops open a little. Brady doesn’t take back his finger.

“I have big hands, too,” he says. Sean sighs, a little _uh-huh._ He doesn’t really relax, but his hips roll up against Brady’s, almost absently.

There’s too much to take in for Brady to even think; he can feel his dick getting wet, caught up in the mess he made of Sean’s ass and drooling, mirrored by Sean mouthing loosely at what he can reach of Brady’s hand, his foot hooked around Brady’s knee but so easy beneath him, pressed together so closely. Brady can’t imagine anything better than this. He _has_ Sean.

Sean, though, gets impatient, makes a deep noise when Brady’s dick catches on the rim of his hole but doesn’t press in. Just that much feels _good_ , but Sean detangles them enough to reach an arm down and grab the base of Brady’s dick. His fingers can’t wrap all the way around, and that makes Brady feel like he’s burning up, like just a handjob from Sean would be the best, hottest thing that’s ever happened to him—  

Except Sean doesn’t want to give a handjob. Sean is pulling Brady down, holding his dick out until it’s lined up against his slick hole, saying, “Come on, you gotta—”

“I know how to fuck,” Brady says.

It feels stupid and immature to say out loud, and he’s probably imagining the way Sean shivers, especially with the way he snaps, “Then prove it.”

Brady doesn’t need to be told twice. He’d give Sean anything he wanted, and right now, he wants Brady’s cock opening him up.

It doesn’t come easy. His hole had almost felt pliant around Brady’s fingers but barely opens around the head now, white hot and so fucking tight.

“You gotta—”

“Shut up,” Sean snaps, shoulders tensing then purposefully relaxing. “Just. Go slow,” like there are any other choice.

Sean is squeezing Brady so tight it hurts, but Brady can’t do anything but try to bury himself deeper, try to make it good _._ So good Sean will never think of another dick but his.

Brady gets his legs beneath, not going far but getting enough leverage to draw out and grind back in, watch as Sean shakes and screws his face up, driving into the mattress beneath him then pushing back against Brady’s hips. He does it again, and Sean makes a deep noise from his chest, shoving his fist into his mouth.

“You _like_ this,” Brady says, mostly testing it in his mouth but feeling he just got blindsided when Sean curls in on himself but nods, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut. “You want me to fuck you?”

Brady can already feel Sean drawing him in, clinging, but he still feels like he’s loses his damn mind watching Sean blush deeper, somehow, nod, and say, “Yeah, Brady, come on.”

It feels wrong to keep an inch between them, so Brady doesn’t, drives back in deep then glues himself on Sean’s back again, licking at his neck, biting just to make Sean squirm again. It’s easier to find a rhythm Sean likes up close, can feel every twitch as Brady grinds up, digging into Sean.

“You like it,” Brady says again, and Sean barely says, _yeah,_ but then he just doesn’t stop, chanting it as Brady fucks deeper and bites at his neck, like he’s trying to be quiet but failing at it. Every muscle in Brady’s body feels like it’s on fire, made for fucking Sean and nothing more.

It’s a jolt when Sean jerks, puts his arms back and pushes at Brady’s stomach as he rasps, “Fuck, stop, stop—”

And Brady does, feeling a draft pass over him as he watches Sean press shaky hands to his eyes, face down in the mattress, breath whistling. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sean says, but he still breathes for another minute before saying. “Just—can we change positions?”

Brady blinks. “Uh, sure. Do you—?”

Sean starts squirming like he actually wants to move, so Brady lets him. His dick feels cold and sore outside of Sean, and he isn’t sure how to move for a minute before Sean grabs his arm and nudges him towards the head of the bed.

The headboard is freezing and digs in weird against Brady’s shoulders, but he can’t think of that long before Sean is kneeing his way closer and carefully crossing a leg over Brady’s lap. The ceiling lamp backlights Sean, makes him look like he’s glowing, and Brady wants to touch him so bad his hands hurt, which he can, so he does, feeling Sean’s thighs flex as he settles.

It’s a lot, to have Sean looking at him and to be able to look back. Brady feels antsy, needy, but he doesn’t dare make the first move, just keeps squeezing at Sean’s thighs, coaxing. He isn’t even the biggest guy on the team, but Sean looks so tiny spread out in his lap, like he has to work to keep his balance. Brady would tip them back over and just take care of it all if it wasn’t so good watching Sean considering Brady, resettling himself until he can reach a hand back again and line himself back up with a wince.

“Good?” Brady’s voice cracks, embarrassingly.

“Shut up,” Sean repeats once he’s settled to the root, and he sounds just as wrecked. He won’t look Brady in the eye, either, so Brady takes his own time taking Sean in, where he’s slick with sweat and flushed in places that are usually tucked away. His whole chest swells and dissipates as he breathes.

Neither of them really have chest hair, yet, but Sean’s legs feel different beneath Brady’s hands than he’s used to. He thinks about Sean shaving them and doesn’t know how to feel about it. He feels nice, as is.

His dick is only half-hard.

Once Brady notices, he can’t look away. It looks like—and Brady hadn’t even realized he had an opinion on such things—a good dick. The perfect dick for Sean to have, scarlet and wet and stout, except it’s listing to the side, drooping, and. Something in his chest tightens, a little guilty.

When he tries to reach out, be buddies about it, Sean slaps his hand down.

 _“Ow,”_ Brady says. He refits his hand tight against the v of Sean’s hips, close but safe.

“Don’t.” Sean glances up at Brady again—his face is _so_ red, Brady doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it—before looking away again, over Brady’s shoulder, rocking a little in his lap again.

“I just want you to feel good.” Brady inches his hand backwards, this time, feels Sean’s back arch as Brady carefully touches where his cock has Sean spread so tight. It’s unbelievable, that Sean will let Brady do this but won’t let him touch is cock. Unless.  “I mean, _do_ you—”

“No one likes a fucking show-off, Brady. Just let me do this.”

 _This_ seeming to mean meditating on Brady’s dick until Sean’s steady enough to right himself and roll his hips. It’s slower than Brady had been but, fuck, it’s good. Hypnotic.

Maybe Brady had been too rough, before. _This_ is good.

It feels, like, impossibly indulgent to just watch Sean fuck himself on Brady’s cock. Brady tries not to think of how he’s moving a little awkwardly, like maybe he doesn’t do _this_ a whole lot, or Brady still feels as intense in Sean as Sean feels on Brady. If pressed, Brady would have probably said that a slow fuck is just kind of boring, but instead, now, it’s like he can feel every fraction of an inch Sean is giving him, how good it is, how good _he_ is.

His dick hardens again, and Brady really, _really_ wants to touch it, but he doesn’t, just holds onto Sean’s hips as they stutter, thighs twitching against Brady’s sides.

It’s harder to stay still, watching Sean bite his lip, eyes wide and bright, as he starts curling back over Brady for better leverage, pushing himself back. He just moans when Brady gropes at his ass and rocks his own hips upwards, chasing the rhythm, and he can’t help but fuck up at that.

It feels messy, after the show Sean gave, to give into the urge to just hold on tight and _fuck,_ but Sean doesn’t push back or say _no_ or _stop_ or _don’t_ again, just falling chest-to-chest again. Brady can finally feel Sean’s cock leaving a wet trail against his stomach, a sharp opposite to the way Sean keeps biting off sounds across his chest, all teeth then tongue and hot air. Brady feels like he’s losing his mind.

Worse, still, is the way his dick keeps sliding out Sean in this position as he draws in tighter, knees squeezing at Brady’s sides. It makes Brady want to cry. He’s fairly sure Sean _does_ cry, a little.

He doesn’t think about it, just gathers every ounce of strength and coordination to flip Sean onto his back. His head is spinning, but Sean’s face seems cracked open, and, _fuck,_ he needs to come. He needs to come so bad he can feel it up and down his spine. Brady pushes Sean’s legs up and out of the way, barely registers Sean wrapping shaky arms around his knees but loving it anyway.

The view of his cock disappearing into Sean is beyond obscene. Nothing in the world matters as much as Brady’s dick, and Sean. His fingers grip onto Sean’s thigh so tightly, tighter than he means, just because how immense this all feels—  

And he uses his free hand to finally get a hand onto Sean’s dick. It looks full on Sean but is barely more than a fat, hot handful to Brady. Brady hears Sean practically scream through clenched teeth until he finds a pillow to smother himself in, and he hates it, but it makes it easier to focus.

Sean’s hole practically looks bruised compared to—however long ago they started, Brady has no fucking clue, but when Brady squeezes Sean’s cock, dragging his hand upwards, it’s like his entire body clenches, drawing Brady in.

Brady wants Sean to come first. He doesn’t know how but he _wants_ it, uses two fingers to massage the head of Sean’s cock as he clenches his hands into fists on the pillow. His chest is aching from how long he’s been holding his breath when Sean finally arches off the mattress and slams back down, his thighs shaking hard as his dick shoots against Brady’s fingers. Not a lot, but that’s fine. That’s perfect.

It feels like Brady comes forever, driving in as deep as possible one last time and pouring the entirety of himself into Sean, never wanting to leave him ever again, just keep doing this forever.

Except, he must black out for a moment, because next thing he knows, Brady is lying next to Sean, eye to eye. Sean’s hair is dark and pressed against his head.

“Hi,” Brady says, for lack of anything better to say.

“You’re a pervert,” Sean responds.

“You started it,” Brady says, automatic. Except, Sean grabs onto Brady’s wrist and guides it back between his spread legs. His hole is—Brady doesn’t want to say _sloppy,_ but can feel the burning truth to it. It feels more than relaxed, like Brady did something that will last, even if just for another hour, and wet. Not just from lube. “Oh. Sorry.”

He’s not sorry enough to not slide two fingers back into Sean, just because he can, because it’s easy.

 

Looking at Sean, Brady is almost certain that he’s planning on getting it back up again and going again, doing everything they didn’t get around to the first time until there’s nothing left.

Except, he blinks, and his arm is around Sean’s chest. Sean is still looking at him. Brady blinks again, and Sean is on his back, eyes closed, mouth open. Snoring, a little.

 

Next time, there’s a knock at Sean’s bedroom door, a hesitant voice saying, “Brady? You only have about ten minutes until curfew, if you want to get home.”

“Shit,” Brady says, and then louder, “Okay, thanks, Mrs. Anderson.”

Sean is back under the pillow. Muffled, he says, “They definitely know.”

“Well.” Brady stumbles out of Sean’s bed. His legs feel a myth from a far-off land. He regrets his athleticism when throwing his clothes off earlier. He sits on the edge of the bed to pull everything back on, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls the pillow back. Sean looks the same. Guarded. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow?”

“Oh, was that what all this was about? Tricking me back into your car?”

Sean’s fingers are laced over his chest. It’s a little weird. Brady laughs, and that feels weird, too. They had just _fucked._ Brady can’t even wrap his mind around it, it feels so good and perfect and necessary. He really wants Sean to feel the same.

“Did you like it?” It falls out of Brady’s mouth without his permission.

“What?” Sean says, but he’s still not great at playing dumb, and he follows it up, quietly, “I came, like, four times.”

 _“What?”_ Brady echos, and he’s not playing dumb. He watches as Sean lets go of his own hand and brings it to Brady’s stomach. There’s come drying on it, and that isn’t the greatest sensation, except he pictures earlier, Sean’s dick trapped between them, him tightening as Brady fucks him through it—“Oh.” That’s better. Great. Something to be proud of. If— “Better than Josh Nikolovski?”

“Oh my god.” Sean takes his hands back to hide his face in, but Brady doesn’t let him, pinning Sean’s wrists, then switching them to one hand so he can feel the blush blooming on Sean’s face. Sean lets him. Brady wants to rub his dick all over that face. He hopes Sean will let him do that, too.

“Was it?” Brady repeats.

Sean huffs, rolls his eyes upwards, and says, “I wasn’t fucking Niko. Haven’t. Ever.”

Brady thinks on that for a moment, lets himself feel smug for a second before pressing again, “Okay, but were you… or, did you want to—?”

Sean closes his eyes again, and there’s nothing Brady can do but watch him breathe before Sean starts. “No. I don’t know. Mostly, I think I just wanted people—or, well, you—to, uh, see me like that. Fuckable. I guess.”

It’s the most unsure Brady has ever heard Sean, which is ridiculous, because he could have asked anytime, ever, and Brady would have done _anything_ for him. Brady kisses him, hard and deep enough to prove it. He feels like this is all so fragile, like if he leaves it for a second it’ll evaporate, and he is suddenly, viciously sick of high school and curfews and living in other people’s homes. It should be illegal for Brady to have to leave right now.

But it’s not, and Mrs. Anderson didn’t offer to let Brady spend the night, so he has to drag himself out of Sean’s bed too soon, glancing back at Sean every few seconds as he checks for his phone, wallet, keys and heads for the door. Sean watches back the whole time.

There’s too much to say, so instead Brady just sticks with, “Bye. See you.”

 

Brady tries to both be polite and avoid the Andersons’ eyes as he makes his exit. He debates speeding his way in before curfew, then decides on just staying conspicuous for once in his life.

“Curfew was fifteen minutes ago, kid,” his dad says as he slides through their front door.

Brady does not wince guiltily, aims for a casual, “I was just at Sean’s, lost track of time. And _then_ I didn’t speed, which I feel like should be rewarded.”

“Oh, is that all,” Keith says. Brady ignores it, as there doesn’t seem to be any sort of punishment coming. He makes his escape.

Briefly, he considers say, _Hey, Dad, you know I’m dating Sean, right?_ Then he thinks of how his parents have reacted about his or Matthews’ girlfriends, or Taryn’s boyfriend, and decides against it.

He does text Matthew instead, though: **Did you know I was dating Sean?**

The response is immediate: _Yeah, no shit, honey!_

Brady huffs. **See that’s what I said.**

 

**‘ , ‘ , ‘**

 

Brady falls asleep early that night and wakes up early the next morning. Or, rather, he’s quicker to get out of bed. He spends a full minute debating putting on decent clothes before dismissing it. Unrealistic. Unnecessary. It’s _Sean._

When he pulls a stop in front of Sean’s house the next morning, there’s McDonald’s breakfast waiting for him. McGriddles and extra hashbrowns. Peak dining, as far as Sean is concerned, Brady knows.

Whatever he was planning on saying—and it was a shitty plan, probably—gets wiped out by the grey Notre Dame sweater Sean has pulled on, looking as ruffled and tired as Brady feels.

“That,” Brady says, “is my shirt.”

Sean glances down, then shrugs, casual. “Found it on my floor. Is the food for me?”

“Thieves don’t get fed,” Brady responds, and then, before he can think better of it, leans over his center console to press a kiss against Sean’s lips, briefly. He’d used a cinnamon toothpaste earlier. Brady knows this, because Sean licked him, and he can taste it against his lips.

He says.“You are _so_ my girlfriend.”

**Author's Note:**

> [In conclusion, as reblogged by Sean.](https://twitter.com/ConorRyan_93/status/914301510770741248)
> 
> [This is me, NSFW 100% of the time, 24/7](https://bauerbump.tumblr.com)


End file.
